


Hunger

by Fira21



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Depression, Eating Disorders, Gen, Minor Character Death, Sarah Rogers Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-18 03:12:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1412905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fira21/pseuds/Fira21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s always been hungry. It’s the only life he’s known.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hunger

He’s always been hungry. It’s the only life he’s known.

Before it was the harshness of a world in depression: a home with no father, no means of provision, an overworked mother, and a sickly, small, more-child-than-man.

He’s skinny, boney and fragile with numerous health issues. He and his mother live in a small one room place where nothing works, especially the heat; and it’s always too hot in the summer and freezing in the winter.

He’s never sure which he prefers: the sticky, cloying, slow-melting feeling of his body oozing away into the floorboards, his breath harsh and thick with extra moisture catching in his weak lungs, his mother moving almost constantly to empty the bowl he has beneath his head that he coughs phlegm and clotted other liquids into; or the frozen, shivering, bone-wracking, marrow-leeching feeling of his entire being slowing, his blood turning thick and unyielding in the relentless _cold_ , and his breath stolen away in quiet moments during the night, huddled with his mother for warmth under every blanket, sweater, article of clothing they own.

And they’re hungry.

Not starving really. He is sure he would have died long before if he had ever actually starved. But always hungry. A dull, persistent gnawing ache that only goes away if he hasn’t eaten. It’s only when he has eaten that the pain returns. His stomach not registering the hollowness until there’s something there to remind it that there’s supposed to be something in there.

He supposes the pain is a good thing. The pain means he’s not dying yet.

The neighbours don’t help. But it’s not their fault. He and his mother don’t live in the nicest part of the city, and everyone here is poor and hungry.

His mother always gives him more food than her. She thinks he doesn’t notice, but he does. The one time he tried to mention it, the look on her face... The sheer agonizing pain in her eyes... The guilt... _My baby is hungry. He’s hungry and I can’t do any more for him. I need to keep him safe and fed and can’t even do that much and he_ knows _..._

He never mentions it again.

He’s young and he doesn’t know what to do after all. He’s small, and sick, and hungry, and his mother is wracked with guilt and unhappy. So he keeps quiet and hopes that will make her happy. Make her well.

It’s only later, when his mother is lying feeble and weak, gasping on the floorboards, covered in the softest things he could find, each fall of her chest letting more of her life’s breath escape...

It’s then he wishes he had done _something_. Said _something_.

But he still young and he didn’t know what to do.

The doctor said it was a sickness. There was nothing to be done. Food wouldn't have helped before or even now and the medicine wasn't working. His mother was doomed to die.

Outwardly he accepts it. Inwardly he will always think it was his fault she died. He was small, and sick, and hungry, and his mother starved, his mother froze, and sweat, and coughed, and died slowly, for him.

All for him.

Inwardly, he hates himself. Hates his weakness, and wants to die instead.

He wants to die.

But he remembers her face. Her passion and spirit.

He lives for her.

Anything else would be an insult to her memory.

After Erskine’s experiment, he thinks that this is it. This is the last of the small, weak person he used to be.

And outwardly it’s true.

He is strong, and fast, and smart (no smarter really, but no one would know as they never looked at him _before_ ), and he’s the military’s golden boy.

Sure, it took a few missions and what was likely a blatant disregard for the rules (and should have gotten him court-martialed), but after, he had the world at his fingertips. At least, that’s what everyone thought.

In all honesty, he didn’t know what to do with this newfound power. Wasn’t even really aware that he _had_ it. So he never used it, never took advantage, and really, his mind never changed.

His body had changed, but his mind was the same, and his mind was the scrawny, runt from Brooklyn who starved his mother (by accident, by accident, he was slowly coming to terms with these things as he got older), and he wouldn’t know what to do with privilege anyway. So he went on the same as he always did, never realizing his men loved him all the more for it.

But he was still hungry.

The side-effects of the serum were things Erskine had only briefly gone over. They all assumed there would be time to explain everything, to document anything new or strange or unexpected. The all assumed there would be notes and detailed descriptions.

They didn’t expect Erskine’s death, his documents and lab destroyed, the last of the serum shattered on city streets, and a serious lack of information on what exactly his body was going to go through.

He’s still hungry.

He presumes it’s the serum. Or not necessarily, but the sheer volume mass his body now contains, mixed with near-constant fighting, or exercises and drills, or hell, just _walking_ , with this much weight to him, is likely a serious depletion on energy reserves. And sure, he’s in the army. They have funding and that means they have food, but he’s very rarely on base.

He’s a soldier. A super-soldier at that. Which means he’s on missions, and on the field, in the middle of enemy grounds, reconnaissance, spying, there isn’t easy access to food. And whoever packs the rations does not keep a super-soldier’s appetite in mind.

Dum Dum Dugan they think about, but even he’s almost constantly hungry. He’s not certain exactly what people think of him, but he’s pretty sure most people presume super-soldier means super-stamina. Which isn’t wrong necessarily, but the energy has to come from somewhere.

The other men look at him a little worried but he waves off their concerns, sneaks a little extra food in the other packs. He’s not stupid. He knows he needs his strength for the fights, but he knows how much he can survive on, new body or not, he keeps enough to keep him going and no more than that. Food is hard to find on the front lines.

Either way, it’s not that big of a deal. He’s used to being hungry after all. Besides, he’s the super-soldier, better he go hungry than his men. He can handle it after all.

He tries not to think of frail limbs, a breathy voice, ribs prominent, about the size of his fingers, a face drooping and voice thick and choking... _It’ll be okay sweetie. It’ll be..._ Limpness.

He’s a super-soldier, he’ll live. His men won’t. He can survive a little hunger.

He always has.

When he wakes to the future is when everything changes.

Not necessarily by his choice either.

Really, how does one argue with a Stark? He’s never figured it out. Decades and a whole generation, and he still has _no idea_ how to handle Starks.

It starts with little things after the huge battle with Loki and the Chitauri. Up until that point, Fury had prodded and poked, but never interfered. He didn’t know anyone else at Shield enough for them to be concerned. Plus most of them were still under a serious case of hero-worship. Those that knew who he was anyway. He kept mostly to himself for the most part.

And any information in his file was either top-secret or incomplete. Fury maybe suspected something but Fury was also ridiculously busy. So really, no one was fully aware of his needs.

Not that they were needs.

It wasn’t until later he could realize how damaged his thinking was, but it wasn’t through any intentional sense of sacrifice. He had quite literally spent his entire life hungry. He came from a place where he was either poor or under food rations, and his food in this time was sent to him in his room, or wherever he was training at the time. He never thought to ask for more. He saw it as a ration, which he ate, and that was that.

It was more than he used to get anyway, so really, it was a step-up for him.

When he went travelling, he ate what he was given, one meal, and that was all. It was a _meal_. That’s what you were supposed to do. Eat a meal, one meal, and that was it. If he was still hungry, then that wasn’t anything strange after all.

He never thought to order more. Sure he had money, from the army and SHIELD, but he honestly just never considered it. He didn’t even know you _could_. Why would you order more than one meal anyway?

After Loki, and the full-scale destruction of New York, after he went with his bike to find himself, after he came back, Stark ( _Tony_ ) invited them, the Avengers, into his Tower.

Quite literally invited them into it. To live. Permanently.

The sheer size of the place was staggering.

That wasn’t his problem though.

He didn’t know what to _do_ for food.

He knew how to cook of course. His mother wasn’t always home, or had time and rations in the war weren’t always cooked and honestly, some of the soldier’s ideas of cooking were just... No. Just no.

It was just...

There was so much _food_.

When he first moved in, he was sparing. He made about as much as he got in the restaurants in this time. After all, it was a communal fridge, there were six people living here, more if you counted the friends: Pepper, Jane, Darcy, Coulson, and a veritable slew of other people at random times. He didn’t want to take more than his share.

It was at one of their first communal dinners at the Tower that Tony noticed.

Communal dinners were something that Pepper suggested actually. She said it was easier to get Tony to eat if there were people around. At least, people he liked, and Pepper assured him that Tony liked him, and the rest of the Avengers too of course. Tony was just difficult sometimes; you had to make situations he literally _couldn’t_ get out of or would feel horrible for missing. Pepper mentioned something about his eyes and a puppy and guilt, but he wasn’t sure he understood that one. Somehow him being there was good for Tony though and Tony’s eating habits. Which he admitted were horrible. Sure, he didn’t eat very often either, but Tony was still just human. He needed the food.

"What are you doing?” He asked confused, watching as Tony and Pepper packed the rest of the dinner away.

Tony gave him a strange look. “Putting the food away.” He said.

“Putting it where?” He asked.

“Back in the fridge.” Tony told him, with a cocked eyebrow. “Where someone can eat them later if they’re hungry. Y’know,” He waved a hand around and Pepper grabbed the container from him with an exasperated huff as some chicken slid out to the floor. She grabbed it from the floor as she left to the kitchen. “Leftovers and all.”

“...Left. Overs?”

Yes. That was probably about the time Tony started to suspect.

“Oh right.” Tony snapped his fingers. “War and all that. Rations and junk. Yeah, welcome to the 21st century, we have more food than could possibly feed this continent. So y’know, feel free to indulge and all that.”

He frowned. “Well no. Other people in this house have to eat.”

Tony laughed. “I’m not sure if you noticed, but there’s more than enough food to go around. We have a personal shopper come by three times a day. We have to,” Tony added with a grin. “Just to be able to feed Thor alone. Bruce too I suppose, when he goes green for the day.”

He supposed it made sense in a way. The fridge was always well-stocked. He just never thought... “Oh. But that would get expensive. Do you need any-?”

“Nope.” Tony said, waving off his protests. “Look, I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I have more money than god. And I like using it to help the people I like. And I like you people. Trust me. There’s no way any of you could eat me out of house and home. It’s quite literally impossible.”

It was true that Tony did have a lot of money. He was still trying to grasp that thought. Having _extra_ money. And extra food? “Leftovers.” He murmured to himself.

He had never been in a situation where there was extra food. There was always... Well, no, there was never _enough_ per se, but he got by. If there was extra food then...

“I noticed,” Tony added and he looked up with a start. “You don’t tend to eat much. I mean, not as much as I would expect from someone your size. Hell, I’m pretty sure Natasha eats more than you. Is that a serum thing? You need less food or you conserve it better or something?”

“Well no,” He said without really thinking. “Actually I need more food because of my metabolism but...”

“Wait. Hold up. _More_ food?” Tony asked and he realized what he just said and shut his mouth. He didn’t want Tony to know how he was usually hungry. Not as bad as he used to be. Everything came so much bigger here. But Tony had already given him a place to stay, and random bits of technology that he apparently wasn’t allowed to refuse, and fed him, for _free_. He couldn’t impose.

He had no idea how much food he would actually need to keep himself full on a regular basis. Had never tried. But he was sure it was a lot. And was likely ridiculously expensive.

Tony was still talking. “So do you eat in intervals or something? Pepper does that, something about a better working metabolism or something. Are you sneaking snacks between meals or something? Cause I gotta say you don’t eat half as much as a normal person, let alone someone that would need more food. So when do you eat all this extra food you need?”

“I don’t.” He said and what? What was it about Tony that made him lose all control of his mouth and brain? He shouldn’t have said that. Now Tony was giving him a surprised look. Interspersed with... Understanding? He wasn’t sure. “Uh. I mean... It’s not...” He could feel his face flushing. “Never mind.”

“Right.” Tony mumbled. “War, and skinny, and rations, and...” He trailed off staring into space and was only jolted back when Pepper came back with another container. “Ah right.”

Tony helped Pepper with the rest of the cleanup and when he left he tried to ignore Tony’s knowing look shot at him.

It was a little harder to ignore when a knock came at his door later and when he opened it there was no one there.

He looked around and noticed a container in front of his door. There was a note attached: _‘Everyone’s gone round two with the leftovers and there was still more left. Kitchen’s pretty far away really. Too far to bring this all the way back before it spoils I think. If you don’t eat it it’ll just go bad really and everyone is sick of more chicken. So you should eat this.’_

He opened the container to find it crammed full of extra chicken and vegetables and potatoes from the meal that night. He quickly closed it.

He couldn’t. After all there were other people in this house. They needed food too. _Shopper comes three times a day._ Tony already did so much, to eat extra food. _There’s no way any of you could eat me out of house and home._ But everyone else _is sick of more chicken._

Hands shaking, feeling almost nauseous, he brought the container inside.

He ate everything inside and licked the container clean.

He went to bed feeling almost full with food and almost full with guilt.

And so it continued, rather much the same for the next few weeks. When they weren’t saving the world, they would eat, and there would sometimes be leftovers, and these leftovers would be found in front of his door, with random notes that didn’t always make sense but carried the same idea: _Here, eat this._

Sometimes it wasn’t a note, sometimes it was Tony with a: _Hey, ordered pizza, eyes bigger than my stomach, come help._ And he would come down to five boxes of pizza which was just ridiculous, but there was no one else in the Tower or they were asleep or busy, so it was up to him to eat the rest since Tony definitely couldn’t eat it all...

And it was okay. Most of the time anyway. It felt okay. Sometimes. More often now.

When he got up the next morning, he grabbed the latest container from the night before on his way down to the kitchen. The night had been a hard one. Skin like tissue paper, bright, glowing veins, blue nails... He clenched his teeth as he set the container in the sink. How could he? There were five other people in this house to feed and he had eaten...

Leftovers. Left. Overs. He had eaten leftovers. They weren’t wanted. They were left over. They were extra.

But someone else could have...

Frail arms, rib bones and a wracking hollow cough... Dimmed blue eyes and a soft smile. A weakening grip...

There was a hand on his arm. He jolted in surprise, looked down at the arm, up at...

 _Tony_.

Small, half-smile, understanding eyes, a gentle grip, tugging him. He moved with Tony as he was pulled to the fridge.

Tony opened it and beckoned. He looked inside.

Food. Plenty of food. More food than he could imagine being necessary, but there. Even with Thor voracious appetite, plus another five people...

“More than enough.” Tony murmured softly.

He swallowed. He made an aborted motion with his hand. Tony grasped it and slowly moved it into the fridge.

He grabbed an apple. There was only one left though. What if someone else wanted-?

Tony’s hand around his, tightening his grip and pulling his hand out of the fridge. Tony shutting the fridge door.

“If you don’t eat it now it’ll spoil.” Tony said.

“I don’t-” He stopped, and swallowed again. He throat felt too tight. “I don’t think that’s how it works.” He finally said.

“Oh really?” Tony shot him a grin. “What do you know of technology? There’s a shelf life on food after all. The second you take it out of a fridge, it starts spoiling. You never know, if you don’t eat it...”

“You could-” He said but Tony shook his head.

“Not in the mood for apples. I’m thinking eggs though. Do you want eggs? How about an omelette?”

“I-” Anything he said after that was mostly gibberish and ignored as Tony pushed him into a kitchen chair and then started pulling things out of the fridge. Eggs, and milk, and green peppers, and onions, and even a couple tomatoes, and cheese, and _eggs_. An ungodly amount of _eggs_. At least two cartons worth.

He watched as Tony started coffee first, and then cut everything up, mixed it in a huge bowl with the eggs and some of the milk and poured it into three huge frying pans. He watched as Tony flipped them, and added cheese and folded them. He watched as Tony brought them to the table, cut one in half (it was _huge_ ), to put on a plate which he sat down in front of, and pushed the other plate, with the other two and a half, in front of him.

He gaped. “I- Tony. I can’t- I-” He stammered.

“Oh sorry.” Tony said, talking over him. “Something to drink right? Milk? You like milk right.” He nodded dumbly and Tony got up. “And the apple is for eating you know. Gonna go bad after all.” Tony kept rambling as he grabbed a mug of coffee, a glass, and the milk jug and came back to the table.

He carefully took a bite of the apple. Trying to ignore the feeling of warmth he got when Tony beamed at him as he poured milk into the glass before picking up his own mug of coffee.

He finished the apple and stared at his eggs until Tony grabbed his fork and replaced the apple core in his hand with it. As though on automatic he cut a piece of the omelette with his fork and started eating it.

He hummed in surprise. It was really good. Tony must have thrown something from the spice cupboard in it. He would never have done that on his own; spices were expensive after all...

He felt the flickering of guilt and stopped eating. He was already a whole omelette in. Surely that was enough, they were huge after all. Surely...

He was distracted from his thoughts as Clint walked in the kitchen.

“Hey wicked! Omelette!” Clint said grinning.

“Get your own eggs.” Tony told him.

His thoughts came back with a vengeance and he started, appalled. “No, you can-” But was stopped by Clint’s reply.

“Fine, fine. You lazy bastard. Of course you make food for the favourite.” He started rummaging in the fridge. “Hey, you took all the eggs you jerk.”

A wave of guilt washed over him. He had eaten food others wanted, others needed, how could he-?

“Ah well. Pancakes it is.” Clint said as he pulled out blueberries and milk and went to the cupboard for flour and baking soda.

A calloused hand rested on his. He looked down to find scarred fingers easing his tightened grip, where he had bent the fork nearly in half.

“Sorry about your luck Barton. I’ll get more eggs next time.” Tony told him. If it weren’t for his hand resting lightly on his it would seem like he was completely ignoring his freak-out.

Which was fine. He didn’t want an audience for... For this.

He was never more grateful to someone...

He saw Clint shrug. “Whatever. Pancakes are good too. Sides, Coulson loves blueberries.”

There was a drawn-out silence. Then Tony snorted. “Nice Barton. Explains a bit doesn’t it?” Tony turned to him and grinned.

He could only nod. Throat still tight.

He watched as Tony got up. As he got more coffee, he grabbed another fork, like it was _nothing_ , bringing it back to the table. It was placed in his hand lightly.

He tentatively, hand shaking, stabbed another piece of omelette and brought it to his mouth. The taste was mostly lost but the flavour came back soon enough as he watched Clint flip pancakes, doing tricks and laughing. Tony yelling at him to stop spilling batter everywhere.

Eventually everyone else made their way down in turns, even Coulson (who was still terrifying in draw-string pajama pants and a loose purple shirt that he was pretty sure was Clint’s).

No one else said anything about the eggs. He ate on auto-pilot. Still savouring the food, but not really paying attention to how much he was eating. It was a strange feeling. He wasn’t sure he was entirely aware of his surroundings to be honest.

By the time he was finished, his stomach felt weird. He couldn’t describe it really. A feeling like a balloon but filled with jello instead of air.

He felt... He felt good. He felt warm and... Full? Was this what full felt like?

It was a good feeling.

He watched as everyone ate. No one went hungry. Not even Thor. There was enough for everyone. And at the end of it all when everyone else except him and Tony had left he opened the fridge.

And there was _still_ food. Not a lot mind you. But there was some. It was there. There was still food. He hadn’t eaten all of it and he was... He was full.

He felt a head nudge his shoulder and he looked down. Tony smiled at him.

“Still hungry?” He asked.

He shook his head and for the first time, it was true.

He closed the fridge and moved to help Tony clean up.

In the late morning light, a while later, scrubbing melted cheese off the stove he tentatively mentioned maybe feeling like a small snack. Tony grinned when he gave him an orange. He finished every piece, plus half of Tony’s when it was offered.

He tamped down the guilt, remembered an old doctors words about fate, and how food doesn’t solve all problems, and maybe he believed it a little more in some ways, and believed it a little less in others.

When they went to move to the living room, he grabbed a box of crackers before they left.

When he came back to Tony, waiting in the doorway, Tony’s smile was like the sun.

Steve smiled back.


End file.
